He Who Battles Monsters
by Pseud0 Nymph
Summary: Sam's not sure he can believe what his eyes are telling him, and he definitely doesn't want to.


He Who Battles Monsters

He Who Battles Monsters

Summary: Sam's not sure he can believe what his eyes are telling him, and he's not sure that he wants to.

A/N: This is kinda like a trailer for an upcoming fic, it'll be interesting to see what you guys make of it. Review and let me know :D

Sam first saw it in Arkansas. He was standing at the sink, washing blood from his hands after an hour of stitching Dean back together again. Swaying with exhaustion, he'd glanced back into the bedroom, to find that the guy on the bed… was not his brother. His hair was too dark, too long, brushing against his shoulders in a way that Dean's never had. His body was thin, ribs instead of muscle, and the familiar scars were gone, the criss-cross pattern of memories like a Winchester photo album, erased from too pale skin. Sam didn't breathe, in that moment didn't need to, just stared and stared and wondered what the hell he was sharing a room with. Then, he blinked and it was Dean again, marine short hair and thin, white lines against gold tanned skin. Sam stepped from the bathroom, keeping a careful eye on his maybe-brother, wiping his hands on the motel towel and not noticing he was leaving pink stains.

"Christo," he whispered, and when there was no response, cleared his throat and repeated it louder. "CHRISTO."

Dean groaned, and shifted so that one eye peered blearily over the crook of his elbow.

"Dude, what the fuck?"

Sam's shoulders sagged with relief, having been fully prepared for Dean to cringe away at the name of God, and come at him with black eyes flashing. Instead he got a muffled growl, that was all Dean, and a demand that he get his ass in bed, pronto. Sam did as he was told, collapsed onto the mattress and clicked off the lamp, but it was a long time until his eyes strayed from his brother, who fell asleep and snored the same as always. Maybe… it had just been exhaustion progressing into hallucinations and paranoia. But maybe not.

He saw it again in Michigan. When Sam watched from the motel window, his brother weave drunkenly across the parking lot, his arm around some girl he'd barely remember in the morning. As he passed through the shade between street lamps, Sam saw him flicker; short, skinny, slight, and then he stepped into the light of the next lamp and was Dean again. Sam drew back from the window, his lips pressed into a thin line, and dug through Dean's pack for Dad's journal. He didn't sleep that night.

In Texas, Dean's eyes flashed blue in the middle of an argument, so that Sam flinched and fell quiet, turning away. Dean sent him worried glances for the next fifty miles, and Sam reviewed his options. Two nights later, when they were digging up a grave, Sam swung his torch at just the angle to catch Dean's eyes.

"Dude, you're blinding me!" he'd exclaimed, recoiling away but a second too slow.

Sam had already seen the eye-shine, the way the light reflected from Dean's eyes, the way it didn't from a humans.

Shape shifter. A fucking shape shifter.

But when Sam set him to making silver bullets the next day, he did so happily, humming Black Sabbath under his breath and showing no aversion to the molten metal. When he tossed Dean a lump of pure silver, blessed in eight languages with the split warning of "look sharp" Dean had caught it in a tight fist that didn't burn or sizzle and just give it a quick glance before tossing it into the melting pot. Behind him, Sam's forehead creased with worry, and he flipped open his laptop.

Shape shifter was the only thing that fit. Maybe getting silver in the body was the only way to kill it, not touch alone, but Sam wasn't about to slice him up or shoot him to test the theory. And so he sat back, watched and waited.

The blade had gone through his flesh like a hot knife through butter. Pure silver, and gleaming bright in the moonlight. All the way back to the motel, Sam wondered if he'd have to shoot Dean as soon as they were through the door. He helped him to the bed, where blood seeped steadily into the motel linen and then returned to his pack for his gun, filled with Dean's home made silver bullets. Sam brought it up, levelled it at his brother for a long moment, and then wavered and dropped it to his side. Dean didn't notice. Just lay slumped against the headboard, his face tired, drawn and so god damn pale his freckles stood out like ink.

When he cranked open an eye, it was the same green as always, hazed with pain and narrowed with annoyance in an expression so intrinsically Dean that Sam wondered how he could doubt it. His eyes flickered to the gun without reaction.

"Sammy, would you quit fussing around with your pack and get into your bed so I can turn off the fucking light?"

His low growl had been the same since he was fifteen, and Sam stared for a moment, half forgotten memories of Dean's voice breaking.

"What happened out there tonight?"

Dean looked incredulous, "What you hit your head or something? You were there, you tell me."

"The knife. How'd it cut you so easily?"

Dean was openly gaping now, "Uh, because I spent all morning sharpening it? If I wanted to I could shave with the damn thing."

Sam stared and Dean stared back. There was no shadow in his eyes, no homicidal shape-shifting maniac, and after a long moment, Sam sighed and put the gun on his nightstand. Paranoia, that's all. Too much hunting and not enough sleep, so many monsters that eventually he was bound to start seeing them everywhere. He glanced back at Dean and instead of a monster, saw the kid he had been, a hero to his little brother.

"Better get you patched up before we sleep."

Dean, lying in a widening pool of his own blood, smiled weakly and said, "Nah, don't worry Sammy. It's just a scratch… it'll be healed by morning."

Sam was terrified that he might wake up to find that it was true.


End file.
